‘In my early years here I was made honorary justice of the peace. This meant occasional trips into town, taking my seat at the sessions and local assizes, and this made a break for me. When you’re stuck in a place like this for two or three months at a stretch – especially in the winter – you end up pining for your black frockcoat. I saw frock-coats – and uniforms and tailcoats as well – at the assizes. They were all lawyers, educated men there, people I could talk to. After sleeping on a sledge or eating with the servants it was the height of luxury sitting in an armchair, with clean underwear, light boots, and a watch-chain on your chest!
‘They gave me a warm welcome in town and I eagerly made friends. The most significant, and frankly, the most pleasant, of these friendships was with Luganovich, vice-president of the assizes. Both of you know him, he’s a most delightful man. Now, all this was about the time of that famous arson case. The questioning went on for two days and we were exhausted. Luganovich took a look at me and said, “Do you know what? Come and have dinner at my place.”
‘This was right out of the blue, as I didn’t know him at all well, only through official business, and I’d never been to his house. I went to my hotel room for a quick change and went off to dinner. Now I had the chance to meet Luganovich’s wife, Anna Alekseyevna. She was still very young then, not more than twenty-two, and her first child had been born six months before. It’s all finished now and it’s hard for me to say exactly what it was I found so unusual about her, what attracted me so much, but at the time, over dinner, it was all so clear, without a shadow of doubt: here was a young, beautiful, kind, intelligent, enchanting woman, unlike any I’d met before. Immediately I sensed that she was a kindred spirit, someone I knew already, and that her face, with its warm clever eyes, was just like one I had seen before when I was a little boy, in an album lying on my mother’s chest of drawers.
‘At the trial four Jews had been convicted of arson and conspiracy – in my opinion, on no reasonable grounds at all. I became very heated over dinner, felt bad and I can’t remember even now what I said, only that Anna Alekseyevna kept shaking her head and telling her husband, “Dmitry, how can they do this?”
‘Luganovich was a good man, one of those simple, open-hearted people who are firmly convinced that once you have a man in the dock he must be guilty, and that a verdict can only be challenged in writing, according to the correct legal procedure, and never during dinner or private conversation. “We haven’t set anything alight,” he said softly, “so we won’t have to stand trial or go to prison.”
‘Both husband and wife plied me with food and drink. Judging from little details – the way they made coffee together and their mutual understanding that needed no words – I concluded that they were living peacefully and happily, and that they were glad to have a guest. After dinner there were piano duets. When it grew dark I went back to the hotel. All of this was at the beginning of spring. I spent the whole of the following summer in Sofino without emerging once and I was too busy even to think of going into town. But I could not forget that slender, fair-haired woman for one moment. Although I made no conscious effort to think about her, she seemed to cast a faint shadow over me.
‘In late autumn there was a charity show in town. I took my seat in the governor’s box, where I’d been invited during the interval, and there was Anna Alekseyevna sitting next to the governor’s wife. Once again I was struck by that irresistible, radiant beauty, by those tender, loving eyes, and once again I felt very close to her.
‘We sat side by side, then we went into the foyer where she told me, “You’ve lost weight. Have you been ill?”
‘ “Yes, I’ve rheumatism in my shoulder and I sleep badly when it rains.”
‘ “You look quite exhausted. When you came to dinner in the spring you seemed younger, more cheerful. You were very lively then and said some most interesting things. I was even a little taken with you, I must confess. For some reason I often thought about you during the summer and when I was getting ready for the theatre I had a feeling I might see you today.” And she burst out laughing.
‘ “But now you seem to have no energy,” she repeated. “It ages you.”
‘Next day I had lunch with the Luganoviches. Afterwards they drove out to their country villa to make arrangements for the winter, and I went with them. I came back to town with them and at midnight I was having tea in those peaceful domestic surroundings, in front of a roaring fire, while the young mother kept slipping out to see if her little girl was sleeping. Afterwards I made a point of visiting the Luganoviches whenever I came to town. We grew used to one another and I usually dropped in unannounced, like one of the family.
‘That soft drawling voice I found so attractive would come echoing from one of the far rooms: “Who’s there?”
‘ “It’s Pavel Konstantinych,” the maid or nanny would reply.
‘Then Anna Alekseyevna would appear with a worried look and every time she’d ask me the same question, “Why haven’t you been to see us? Is anything wrong?”
‘The way she looked at me, the delicate, noble hand she offered me, the clothes she wore in the house, her hairstyle, her voice and footsteps always made me feel that something new, out of the ordinary and important had happened in my life. We’d have long conversations – and long silences – immersed in our own thoughts. Or she would play the piano for me. If she was out, I’d stay and wait, talk to the nanny, play with the baby, or lie on the sofa in the study and read the papers. When Anna Alekseyevna came back I’d meet her in the hall, take her shopping and for some reason I’d always carry it so devotedly and exultantly you’d have thought I was a little boy.
‘You know the story about the farmer’s wife who had no worries until she went and bought a pig. The Luganoviches had no worries, so they made friends with me. If I was away from town for long, they thought I must be ill or that something had happened to me and they would get terribly worked up. And they were concerned that an educated man like myself, speaking several languages, didn’t use his time studying or doing literary work and could live out in the wilds, forever turning round like a squirrel on a wheel and slaving away without a penny to show for it. They sensed that I was deeply unhappy and that if I spoke, laughed or ate, it was only to hide my suffering. Even at cheerful times, when I was in good spirits, I knew they were giving me searching looks. They were particularly touching when I really was in trouble, when some creditor was chasing me, or when I couldn’t pay some bill on time. Both of them would stay by the window whispering, and then the husband would come over to me, looking serious, and say, “Pavel Konstantinych, if you’re a bit short, my wife and I beg you not to think twice about asking us!”
‘And his ears would turn red with excitement. Often, after a whispering session at the window, he would come over to me, ears flushed, and say, “My wife and I beg you to accept this little gift.”
‘And he’d give me cufflinks, a cigarette case or a table-lamp. In return, I’d send them some poultry, butter or flowers from the country. They were quite well-off, by the way, both of them. In my younger days I was always borrowing and wasn’t too fussy where the money came from, taking it wherever I could get it. But for nothing in the world would I have borrowed from the Luganoviches. The very idea!